Secrets In The Basement
by Orpah
Summary: Germany tells Italy to never go into the basement. But what will Italy see when he does?
1. Chapter 1

I only got about three hours of sleep, but I've been dancing and it's been fun but just now I got this great idea! I was reading up- you'd be surprised how much they don't teach you in school, probably mostly because they can't teach you everything- and read about Nazi experimentation on ethnic Poles (and others, but a whole bunch of them were Poles) and got this idea. So, enjoy!

Warning: Might be a little disturbing....

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

Italy had been searching throught the whole house, unable to find Germany. He'd looked in the bedrooms and the kitchen, as well as the pantry. He'd even looked in the closets and on the roof!

Which only left one room, or else Germany wasn't home. Italy looked up tentatively at the warning sign on the door. Germany had told him very expressly not to go in this room, and he'd learned that often when Germany forbid him from seeing things it was usually something he wouldn't want to see in a million years, like Germany's strange dvds. Those had been so icky...

But now, he swallowed as he made up his mind. It wasn't like whatever was behind this door could be much worse than those dvds, right? If he saw something nasty, he would just close his eyes.

His fingers wrapped around the cold metal of the doorknob, slowly twisting the heavy handle. The door took a little bit of pushing to open, since it was an old, heavy door, and it ground open to show Italy a flight of badly painted wooden stairs. So this was the basement...

He experimentally placed his foot on the top step, wincing at the loud creak. It was shadowy and spooky down there, and it smelled of something rotting. He couldn't entirely pin down the smell, however, and so continued down, hoping there would be another light bulb to turn on at the bottom.

He nearly slipped on the sawdust on the bottom of the stairs, and discovered there was a lot of the stuff all over the floor at the bottom. Maybe that was where the weird smell came from.

He continued on, looking for a light switch of some sort. "Germany? Hello~? Are you down here? I'm sorry I came down even though you told me not to...." There was a weird, thick silence hanging in the air. He gulped, feeling like his throat was getting coated with the sawdust on the floor. It was so creepy down here....

He jumped as he heard what sounded like someone whispering. Italy immediately responded by looking around frantically and apologising. "Hello?! Hello?! I'm sorry! Who's there?!"

His ears strained for any more whispering, and he finally heard what the whisperer was saying.

"Ojcze nasz, którys jest w Niebie, swiec sie Imie Twoje, przyjdz Królestwo Twoje, badz wola Twoja...." Wait just a second... That was Polish! He immediately scrambled in the direction of the sound. "Poland? Poland, is that you?"

He felt along the wall, getting no response from the whisperer, and found a light switch. Finally. Now he would actually be able to see what was going on...

The second the light flipped on, Italy felt his heart do a flip-flop. This was no regular basement. It was full of what appeared to be medicine and scientific equipment, most of which Italy could not even guess the function of. He shuddered, and then his eyes landed on the figure in the corner.

He froze. It was Poland, but he sincerely hoped he was somehow mistaken. The Pole was hunched up, backed into the corner as far as he could go, his head pressed against his knees. Italy felt like his breath had run away from the horrible sight, leaving him speechless. He'd known Germany had conquered Poland, but he'd never thought... that Germany was so cruel....

He'd given Italy a normal cell when he'd captured him before, and gave him food and a blanket and all that stuff. Surely, this wasn't Germany's doing...

His train of thought was interrupted by Poland, who had lifted his head, showing that he was wearing a blindfold of some sort. He'd stopped saying whatever it was he had been saying, and now seemed to be on edge, listening carefully. Italy immediately ran over, putting his hands on Poland's shoulders.

"Poland, it's me, Italy! What are you doing down here?" Poland flinched at his touch, shrinking away. Italy thrust his fingers under the blindfold, easily ripping it off. His friend made a strange noise, looking around and squinting, evidently not used to the light. He stared at Italy without a spark of recognition in his eyes, seeming torn between fear and relief.

"Poland, what happened to you?" Italy stared, somewhat horrified to see how pale and sickly Poland looked. Also, he was sporting a huge motley bruise on half his face, like he'd slammed it into something hard like a wall. Poland finally spoke, in a shaky and parched voice.

"Italy?" His eyes started to flood as he seemed to return to reality. Italy put an arm around Poland, and tried to pull him into a hug, but discovered that wasn't quite possible- Poland was chained to the wall. So naturally, he scooted into an awkward hug, and Poland leaned into his shoulder, crying silently.

Loud footsteps coming down the stairs interrupted the relative quiet, causing Poland to tense up. Italy turned to see Germany coming over, his expression a mixture of shock and anger. "Italy! I told you not to come down here!" He seemed strangely afraid, despite thundering at Italy.

Italy looked back, huge puppydog eyes enough to overcome even Switzerland. "Germany, I couldn't find you anywhere, so I came down here, but I found Poland! Someone chained him up down here in your basement!" Something- probably cold logic- in the back of Italy's mind tried to tell him that Germany knew, Germany was the one who'd done it, but he couldn't believe his best friend would do something like this, he just couldn't bring himself to...

Germany hesitated to answer. He finally seemed to come up with something. "Yes... I guess so... Why don't you go upstairs while I handle this? You really shouldn't be down here." Italy nodded, glad Germany knew what to do. He started to stand up, only to have Poland whimper and get a grip on his sleeve despite the short chains.

"Please... Please don't leave me, not with him, please-" he was starting to get choked up, and the hoarseness of his voice was quite apparent. Germany immediately cut in, a grim expression on his face. "It's okay, Italy. I'll handle it." He swiftly and forcefully made Poland release Italy's sleeve.

Poland whimpered again and started to cry, this time with sound, obviously terrified of the German. Italy looked torn between obeying Germany and helping his friend. "But Germany-" The taller man turned on the Italian, practically roaring at him. "I SAID LEAVE! WHAT PART OF THAT DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?!"

Italy turned pale and ran for the stairs, starting to cry, just like Poland. When had Germany started acting this way?! He'd always been gruff, but why was he suddenly acting like such a... a.... Italy didn't want to use the word 'monster' to describe his best friend, but it was all he could think of at the moment.

He threw himself into the couch, covering his ears with his hands because he could still hear Poland- one of his other best friends, who he'd just left alone with his almost-monster of a best friend. What kind of a friend did that?! He wanted to go back, he wanted to protest against it, but the pure anger- not irritation like normal- Germany had exuded had easily sapped all willpower to do so out of him.

Why? Why would Germany do this? Italy found himself sobbing. Germany couldn't be evil, he just couldn't....

/AN/ Okay, I figured that since Italy and Poland are good friends, it would be interesting to see what Italy would think if he found out what Germany was doing to Poland. I don't know how much Italy knew in real life of what the Germans were up to, but I think Italy in Hetalia would have a really hard time coming to terms with the idea that his friend is a monster who was torturing his other friends.


	2. Chapter 2

I thought maybe a second chapter would be interesting. So, here goes nothing...

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

Italy remained where he was, quietly crying into the cushions of the couch. He couldn't hear Poland anymore, which was far more disturbing than comforting, though he kept trying to reassure himself that was just because Germany had probably calmed him down and taken care of him (killed him, knocked him out, or at least gagged him, his subconscious kept saying) and now he was content and maybe a bit cleaner. That's right, Poland was probably happy now, and didn't need to be afraid of Germany... Because Germany was nice, even if he acted mean sometimes...

He tensed up as heavy boots came up the stairs, causing his train of thought to derail. "Italy?" came the gruff voice of Germany. He sounded worried, like Italy might have broken himself in his haste to get away.

Italy wasn't sure how to respond, or if he should respond at all. His subconscious kept whispering to him that Germany wanted to shut him up permanently, similiar to the way the mafia functioned. He gulped, and decided to respond, since Germany was his best friend, after all.

"G-germany?" It was harder to force out than he had expected, but Germany heard it and came clomping over. Their eyes met for a moment, and Italy could see something that looked like regret flash in Germany's eyes, before they turned blank again. Germany folded his arms with a sigh.

"Are you hungry?" Italy just stared at him dumbly. Hungry? Didn't he even remember what they just saw, what they both just did? Didn't he remember Poland? How could he be asking something like that?!

Italy stopped to reconsider, seeming to calm considerably. Maybe Germany was asking because Poland was going to join them for dinner? He smiled at Germany.

"Yeah! Is Poland going to be there too, because he looked hungry to me, and company would probably make him really happy~!" Germany twitched strangely, seeming to grimace a little. At first, he seemed to be struggling for an answer. Then he sighed and stared straight ahead. "No, Poland is sleeping. I don't think we should wake him up."

Italy's face drooped, as he looked at Germany pleadingly. "I'm sure he won't mind, he probably doesn't want to stay all alone anyway... He told me he likes people more than sleep any day!"

Germany's jaw set grimly. "He said he didn't want to be disturbed. I'm going to make some soup, if you want any, join me in the dining room." And with that, he turned and left. Italy's mouth dropped open a little. Germany wasn't normally this cold towards him....

"H-hey! Germany!" Italy chased after him, nearly running into his as he sharply turned the corner into the kitchen. Germany didn't respond, just staring straight ahead, like he wanted to pretend Italy didn't exist right now. Italy grabbed his sleeve, not roughly, and turned so he could face him. "Please, Germany... What's going on?"

Germany tried to look anywhere but those tearful eyes, knowing he would have to spill if he looked directly into them. Even if he'd never really liked Poland, the things he had to do to him now, the things his scientists did, made him sick to his stomach, and made him seriously question if this was really for the best.

He gulped as he looked at Italy now. He started speaking softly, as if he weren't sure of his words himself. "Italy... Sometimes, things have to be done that we really don't want to do, but it's for the best. It's better that you don't understand it."

Italy shook his head vigorously, tears seeming to well up in his eyes. "No! It can't be that way, you can't really want to hurt Poland! Hurting Poland is bad, you can't do it! Because you're not bad! You're good, you're my best friend! You can't hurt Poland...." And he broke off crying, unsure of how to deal with all the emotional turmoil inside himself.

Germany just watched, slightly in shock at the display before him. He put both hands on Italy's shoulders, resisting the minor urge to hug him. "Italy, things aren't always that simple... I don't like it, but I have to do it. My boss has commanded me to, and it is for the best of my people! I can't put his people before mine!"

"You don't have to, just stop hurting him!" Italy wailed back, shaking under Germany's hands. Germany went silent. He knew defying his boss's orders were not an option, but how could he say that to Italy's face? He felt almost upset at his friend's loss of faith in him just now.

Italy still cried, then abruptly turned and headed for the basement. Germany watched dumbly for a couple seconds before realizing what Italy was doing. His hand shot out and caught his arm. "I can't let you do that, Italy."

Struggling, Italy almost glared back at him, though it was more of a sad expression. "He doesn't like the dark! And he doesn't want to be tied up in your dusty basement!" He flailed against Germany, but to no avail, as Germany stood there silently like a statue, keeping him from leaving. "Let go of me! Poland needs me!" He continued struggling uselessly, until finally he seemed to give up on trying to break free of Germany's iron grip.

"Please, Germany... You can't..." Was all he could think to say. Germany grunted noncomittally. Italy, seeing it was hopeless, turned to get his coat and leave. If he couldn't help Poland at all, then he couldn't stand to be in the house where he was being held captive.

Germany just watched as Italy turned his big, sad eyes towards him one last time, and then shut the door behind himself.

/AN/ I believe I'll make a third chapter (Yes, I like doing thing in threes, I guess...), if anyone wants it.


	3. Chapter 3

Okay, I've had a heck of a time writing this, and let me say this: I sincerely apologize for it taking so long. My focus has been shot, like I suddenly developed ADHD or something. Just a note, Italy changing sides actually had nothing to do with the occupation of Poland, but I figure I can take a little bit of artistic license.

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

Italy sat inside his house, melancholy and thinking of Poland. One of his best friends, now held captive by one of his other best friends. It hurt his head to think that his friends could not just get along, and it hurt his heart to realise that there was nothing he could do to free Poland.

He let out a heavy sigh. He had already decided what he was going to do about this, but he knew it would hurt Germany. Why should he even care about hurting a _monster_, the voice in his mind hissed, why should he even consider his feelings? But another side told him that if he didn't care, at least a little, after all the feelings and bonding and tentative hugs and kisses, he would be just as heartless. None of it mattered, however, compared to the things Germany had done. And he was just going to have to accept it and move on with his plan.

So he slowly got to his feet, and walked over to his desk, pulling out a sheet of paper. He felt a little cowardly, not saying this to Germany's face, but he knew he did not want to face the anger - and the hurt heart- of the other. Picking up one of his pens, he began, with a simple _Dear Germany._

How did he want to continue after that? It was not as though writing a letter like this was part of his training. He nibbled on the end of the pen thoughtfully. He didn't want to be callous, but he also wanted it to be clear where he stood. He took the pen out of his mouth, putting it to paper. _I'm sorry I can't deliver this news in person._

_This war is not healthy for myself or my people, and we are surrendering. The Allies are at my door, and I don't want to be involved in a bloody war for control._ Good, very good, and it was all very true. The last thing he wanted to do was lie about his reasons to Germany. He paused, pen still over the paper. He didn't know what he wanted to say next. Maybe he should explain himself a little more. _My boss is a tyrant, and I'm ousting him tonight. Yours is too, and you should not stay under his control. He makes you do bad things._

Did he dare mention Poland? Italy pursed his lips. How could he put it in a way that Germany might be receptive to? Then he decided to go for a simple approach. _Please be nicer to Poland._

_Love, Italy._

Italy looked the letter over again, slightly pained by its shortness and abruptness, but knowing there was nothing he could add, nor was there anything he should take away. It would serve its purpose, and cleave the connection between himself and Germany. Italy had never written a letter with a heavier heart, and he hoped he never had to again.

He folded it up, and walked out his door, to the telegraph office. He could feel the pull of sadness on his face, and he tried to smile, for the telegraph lady. But it must not have been very convincing, for she gave him a soft, sympathetic look. "Sending someone bad news?"

"Yes, very bad news. It's for Germany," Italy said, sighing heavily. He really liked Germany, why did the other have to do something like this? But that was the past now, and he had to move on. The telegraph lady had frozen, then returned to normal. For, though Italy had never learned her name, she was one of the many in his country who knew who he was. She nervously held out her hand for the letter, and he gave it to her, not hesitating once. Though once she had it, he wished he could take it back.

She disappeared into the back, and he turned around to head heavy-heartedly home, where he had only his brother for company. They had talked about this, and Romano had been all for leaving 'the potato bastard,' which had not come as a surpise.

Italy entered his home quietly, closing the door softly behind himself. It was over. He would be out of the war now, and he would not be assisting Germany in his evil plans. He might have danced with happiness at the war being over for him, if the image of Poland, chained up and blindfolded, could not be erased from his mind.

He knew his people were driving out Mussolini even as he prepared for bed, and he couldn't help but be proud of his people, his _brave_ people. No matter what other nations might say, he knew he had every reason to be pleased and honored by his people, and the sacrifices some of them had made in fighting against the Fascists.

He slipped into bed, hoping the shards of his heart would come back together by morning, though he knew it was impossible.

/AN/ Okay, so there will be a fourth chapter, unless I suddenly get the job I'm applying for. Then I won't have time. Please tell me if this was good or not, _Secrets in the Basement_ is my baby, and I'm so scared I've messed it up with this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you for all the reviews! They made me very happy. And, this is like, my only story about Italy, so I'm always worried whether or not I'm writing him correctly. And yes, it is very true that Italy had no idea what Germany was up to. But that's what artistic license is for. Either way, I hope you like this next chapter! I put a lot of thought into it.

Caution: F-bomb dropped in this chapter. As well as a couple other curse words (which I would not normally do, but I want to keep Romano in character, y'know)

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

For once, Romano seemed happy. Not to the naked eye, of course, as he was snipping at America about his bastardization of Italian food, and generally being a nuisance, but Italy could see it, in the way his shoulders had relaxed for the first time since the beginning of the war, and the way he was using slightly less curses than usual. England stood off to the side, agreeing with Romano every so often about how bad American food was.

"Now, come on guys! Everyone knows I'm the second most Italian nation in the world, so my Italian food can't be that bad!" America insisted emphatically, pointing to his chest as though to remind them who he was talking about. Romano, of course, face pulled into that perpetual frown of his, replied, "Your food is shit! You have no appreciation for a good tomato! And also, your pasta is fucking tasteless!"

To think, Romano had been dancing for joy earlier, eager to see this war out of their lands. And Italy could hardly blame him, but yet... There was a heaviness in his heart, and he kept gazing towards the door, as though he really expected Germany to give up on the war as well, just for him, and to come in here and celebrate with them.

But no, he knew Germany. Or did he? He was not sure anymore, but he was fairly certain Germany was the type to go down fighting, down to the last man. It made his head hurt, to think of fighting so hard for something that just was not worth all the death. Maybe Germany would realise, now that Italy was gone, that he had to give up on this dream of ruling the earth. It wasn't achievable, and even Italy could see that.

He heaved a sigh. He decided to step outside, gazing one last time over at his brother, who was arguing with America about what kind of cheese was better (parmesan or american), and he couldn't help but smile a little. At least they could finally be at peace, instead of fighting with everyone.

There was a nice, summery air outside, though it was so late in the summer. Italy took in a deep breath of him, humming a little appreciatively. He'd been several places these last few years, but he could honestly say there was no place he loved more than his home. Russia was too cold, North Africa was too hot and dry, and France, well, it could never truly be like home.

He'd worked so closely with Germany, in his invasions and in his occupations (but not of Poland, never of Poland), it was almost like he was missing a half of himself. Would he pine away for his best friend, like sailors would pine to death for sirens? Or would he just learn to get on without him, like he had before?

It was an unfairly hard question, for there was a part of Italy, an inside part that did not belong to his people, that wanted to cling to all memory of Germany, never forget even the little things, like how cute Germany looked with his hair down, or how he would kiss him on the cheeks whenever he asked. Yes, Italy had determined, there must be a good side to Germany, or else he would never have been so nice to him.

He was fairly disheartened now, but there was no turning back. He was on the Allies' side now, and that was what was best for his people. Maybe, he realised, as he watched the sun set, he should go inside now, and stop feeling guilty. It wasn't living when a person was trapped in the past.

So he turned back towards the door, intent on going inside and maybe even debating about food with America, when out of nowhere, a hand snaked out, suddenly gripped crushingly about his mouth. Another arm encircled him, constricting around his arms and waist. Italy let out a muffled scream, struggling against the unseen enemy in terror.

He tried to reach for the door handle, knowing that little thing would be enough to grab the attention of those inside, and save him from whatever this man wanted to do with him. But no, he was being dragged backwards, farther and farther from safety and into the darkening night.

A strangled sob escaped from him, and he was sure he was going to wet himself or do something equally embarassing. This could not be happening! He had surrendered, why was he under attack? This enemy was clearly strong, but America was inside, and so was England. There was another Ally, as he recalled, though his name escaped his memory at the moment. Could this be him?

Italy was shoved face first against a wall, his cheek scraping along it, and the hands were retracted to push him hard against it. He writhed under the man's hands, feeling not only threatened, but as though his very privacy was being deeply intruded upon. One thick hand pulled both of his wrists together, and cord was tightened around them. In a high-pitched, terrified voice, Italy demanded, "Why are you doing this? Who are you? Let me go, I'm not going to hurt anybody!"

"Not unless I tell you to," Came the cold agreement, and Italy froze, his blood turning to ice. It couldn't be...

/AN/ So, anywho, I have discovered some things about Italy during WWII: It wasn't the quality of their soldiers that caused them to lose battles. On the contrary, their soldiers were often very brave, even if they had low morale. It was a combination of bad leadership, low morale, and subpar equipment that really dragged them down. They hadn't been ready for war at all, but it was a matter of pride for Mussolini, because he was allies with Germany.

Also, Italian troops fought not only around Italy, but in France, in Russia, and I think Greece, as well as some other areas. However, they didn't join the war until ten months after Poland was invaded, so they had nothing to do with that.


	5. Chapter 5

Well, I've been in the hospital, so that's why there was such a huge gap between updates. I'm not forgetting this story again, don't worry! Also, I wanted to thank you guys for your support. I was surprised that after over a year of not updating, this story still generated interest. I hope I can keep you guys happy!

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

It couldn't be. Not the one who was soft yet stern, his friendlyness an acquired taste over time. Not the one who had taught him how to shoot the new weapons properly, and how to run a mile without turning red or panting. Not the one who gave him kisses on the cheeks.

"Germany-!" The cord was tightened severely, and Italy's face ground against the rough wall. "Not a word," came the sharp hiss, and Italy could feel his vocal chords tighten. He could barely choke out something that sounded like an affirmative, as a cold, numbing fear began to seize his body. This was not the Germany he knew! The Germany he knew would leave him be, knowing that that is what friends do for each other! He would not be here to- to-

A new wave of fear washed over him. What was Germany here to do? Punish him for leaving his side? Would he wound or maim him? Would he _kill_ him? Italy had no more time to contemplate what Germany was here to do, as the muscled nation pulled him away from the wall, and flipped him around. Terrified brown eyes met blue ones, hard as ice.

Then Germany had to look away, eyes twitching to look as Italy's hair curl instead. Italy's shoulders hunched as he felt more vulnerable than he ever recalled feeling. Not even in the many invasions he'd suffered had he felt this way, as Germany's eyes seemed able to pierce through to his very soul, reading the anxious terror where the stronger nation expected resilience by now.

Germany's hands reached out, and Italy flinched back, eyes shutting. Whatever it was, please, dear God, let it be over quickly... A mass weighed down on his shoulders, forcing him to fall down to his rear, back scraping against the wall the entire way down.

Italy's eyes fluttered open, still fearful of a painful death but having to know what Germany was going to do, to see Germany pulling out more cord. He looped it around Italy's ankles, pulling it tight almost viciously. Italy tried to twist away, despite the obvious futility, turning onto his stomach on the dusty road.

He breathed in the dust, and began to cough, causing much more noise than Germany obviously wanted. Before he knew it, his mouth was invaded, cotton handkerchief forcing its way all the way back to his uvula. He gagged uselessly, a whole body gag, and a horrible, horrible fear gripped his entire body, screaming maniacally in his head, You're going to die, you're going to die! However, Germany seemed to notice before he could to choke to death on the handkerchief, carefully adjusting it.

Italy began to cry, struggling against his bonds. But the cord was strong, and it only dug into his wrists and ankles. His thrashing was doing absolutely nothing, and his muffled wailing met deaf ears. Hands settled on his lower back, and with a grunt, Germany heaved him over one shoulder, and started marching for the border, or at least the nearest sympathizer. How should Italy know?

But he struggled all the same, giving Germany plenty of trouble. It may have seemed out of character to Germany, who was used to seeing the Italian surrender, but this was a different situation. He was in real danger, danger that could end in death, for all he knew. It was quite a different matter to surrendering and being placed in a cell somewhere.

Italy's muffled screams barely seemed to travel, and as he watched, he could see the light from the windows of his house get smaller and smaller, his brother and new allies and safety all disappearing with it. He barely registered the wetness on his face or the running of his nose as he thrashed, nearly throwing himself off of Germany's shoulder.

Germany grunted in annoyance, shaking him. He clearly did not think Italy need to be so terrified, and growled at him, "Stop that, or I'll drop you over the next bridge I see."

That did the trick, and Italy went as limp as a dead fish, sobbing silently. This should not be happening... He should be safe, he should be happy, out of this war, not dragged kicking and screaming back into it. Germany did not love him. If he loved him, he would not be able to do this to him!

Suddenly, he was dumped against cold metal, and what sounded like a car door slammed shut. An army jeep. Then, Italy realised with a shudder, Germany was probably taking him home. And that was a place he did not want to be.

But there was nothing he could do, as the engine roared to life and Germany drove off on the dusty road. Italy curled up, feeling weightless, as he went over bump after bump, feeling as though one more significant bump would be enough to send him flying out of the car.

There was not a word uttered from Germany's mouth, only an affected silence during the ride there. Italy shut his eyes, not wanting to think about what all this meant. How could Germany do this to him?

/AN/ I'm so excited! Also, I've had to get up so early in the morning, I can doze off sitting up. Weird, huh? And I can't have coffee because caffeine drives me nuts! And man, if I were Italy, I'd totally give up. Not a question about it.


	6. Chapter 6

Aiyah, you have no idea how bad I feel about not updating this for so long... Things have just been so crazy busy with readjusting to school and all. Plus, my muse ran away _again_. I hate when that happens. But, since I know people are still interested (and it is my baby), here is the next chapter I've been working on in my spare time!

And, just so you know, I'm not really into GerIta, but what history dictates and all...

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

The air had turned cold by the time they reached Germany's house. Italy shivered, lying in the truck bed and feeling completely helpless. Germany, his best friend turned foe, was going to take him into that house and do God knew what with him. His cheek pressed against the cold metal, wishing it would just absorb him and keep him safe from the rough hands of his former comrade.

But it was not to be, and a darkened visage appeared over him. Large hands soon followed, hoisting him up with a grunt. Italy immediately began to struggle, making protesting noises that were a cross between a whimper and a squeak. A sharp pain! Italy reeled, eyes wide open in shock. Germany had... he had actually _slapped_ him.

The voice in the back of his head began whispering things, nasty things, about what Germany meant by all of this. Italy could feel something inside of him just shriveling up in terror and anxiety. As Germany got him properly over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, Italy did not fight back, but tears did fall from eyes, though he thought he'd spent them all by now.

The solid wooden door of Germany's home creaked open, and they marched into the foreboding darkness.

Light was soon achieved, however, and after shutting the door quietly, Italy was settled onto the stiff couch, and the handkerchief was pulled from his mouth. "Germany! Germany, why did you do this? Why? I wasn't trying to-"

"Shut up. It is not time for you to speak." Came the harsh rebuke, and those ice cold eyes met his for a moment, freezing the blood in his veins. The words he had been speaking died in his mouth, and he shut it. Germany continued on in silence, untying the cords around Italy's wrists and ankles.

Italy raised one sleeve to wipe his face, snot and drool having accumulated during the drive. Normally, he wouldn't soil his clothes this way, but this was a special circumstance where he was not likely to get a hanky. He sat, shoulders hunched and knees tightly together, not daring to look up at Germany.

Germany's cold gaze was settled on top of Italy's head, and finally he said something. "What the hell did you think you were doing?" The anger, the rage at being abandoned was there, as tightly controlled as it was. Italy, even though he knew his reasons were just, could not look at Germany's face. "Y-you... You know why I did what I did, Germany."

Fingers dug into his shoulders, and Italy was forced to look up at Germany. "That's not good enough!" Germany barked in his face, face gone from being coldly angry to a face that was the caricature of a snarl. It made Italy try to sink back into the cushions, but no, Germany's grip was too strong for that. Italy burst into tears, yelling back pitifully, "I don't know what you want me to say!"

"How about, 'I didn't care about all the treaties, all the battles fought, the men lost, I didn't care about you, I was only looking out for my own ass!'" Germany roared back, hands clamped so tightly on Italy's shoulders the peninsula nation was sure his arms were going to pop out of the socket. Italy was sobbing hard now, managing out in very tremorous tones, "I never wanted to be in the war! My boss did, not me, never me!"

Germany very audibly ground his teeth before answering, "Didn't any of what we did together- Didn't anything we worked for matter to you?" The harsh tones caused Italy to flinch away still, and he covered his face with his hands. Germany immediately yanked his hands down, glaring at him straight in the eyes. "I said, didn't any of that matter to you?" he barked, and behind the anger there was an insecure questioning, one Italy could scarcely comprehend in a someone as tough as Germany.

"Yes!" Italy confessed miserably, trying to look away. "But, but Germany, I could not be friends with you anymore, I cannot, not after what you did to-"

"He doesn't matter, nothing matters more than our alliance!" Germany's hands were like pincers, trapping Italy's wrists between and keeping them there. "And, you will keep your promise!"

If Italy didn't know better, if he didn't know there was no way that a mind like Germany's could waver for a second, he could have sworn he saw a spark of insanity, insanity to continue in the mission no matter what, and to keep Italy by his side throughout. As it was, he was petrified by the iron insistence in the statement, and shook his head, letting out a pitiful, "No, I can't, I'm on the Allies' side now, Germany! You can't do this-!"

His chin was gripped tightly, forcing him to close his mouth and meet Germany's ice cold stare. "You will do it. And we will begin cleansing your people as well. You will become one with me."

Had Italy ever truly felt terror before now? Where was the Germany he knew and loved? He couldn't move, couldn't protest, as Germany leaned forward, faltering for a moment, before placing a chaste kiss on his forehead, as though it were a way of claiming him.

"Now," Germany said, releasing his chin and wrist, "We will win back your brother, of course. We won't let those bastards have you or him. The battle will be bloody, but it will be worth it."

"Please, Germany, don't do this," Italy pleaded, and the angry light in Germany's eyes returned. He seized Italy's hands, pulling him up. Italy resisted, trying with all his might to remain seated. "Since you will not cooperate, I suppose we will have to do things this way."

A thousand warning signals went off in Italy's head. What on earth could that mean? "Germany, no, stop it!" he cried, as he was finally forced up from the couch and dragged clumsily along. Germany just continued on, Italy forced to follow along like an animal on a leash. "You give me no choice but to do this."

"I'm sorry, alright, but you know why I had to leave! You know!" Italy felt the slightest throb of sympathy for Germany's feelings, but the fear of what was to come, and still, the sorrow at what Germany had done, to himself and his dear friend, were stronger. He let his legs just fold under himself, giving Germany an even harder time pulling him along.

"It doesn't matter if you come willingly or not, you will be under my control, you will never leave again!" Germany's angry growl threatened to turn into a snarl, and he lifted Italy bodily, causing the smaller nation to shriek and start kicking and flailing. It was nothing the German could not handle, evidently, as he started up the stairs. Fear gripped Italy's heart. "No! No! Germany, stop!"

But Germany clomped up the stairs, bringing the thrashing Italian with him. He nearly fell off at one point, but as Italy knew, within Germany's heart was ironclad determination, the kind that was difficult, if not impossible, to overcome once it came into play. Italy was frightened out of his wits, yet he did not dare actually attack Germany. It just was not in his nature, to attack one who was once dear to him.

The first door they came upon, Germany kicked open, and dropped Italy on the bed. Italy promptly scrambled off, making a break for the open doorway. The wind was knocked out of him, however, when Germany blocked him like some sort of rugby player. "Stop opposing me!" he snapped, depositing the gasping nation onto the bed once again.

No, no, Germany could not do this to him, he couldn't! Italy let out a terrified, if wheezy, cry when Germany seized one of his wrists, snapping on one half of a pair of handcuffs. Despite Italy's best efforts, the other half was soon attached to the bedframe. "I'll be on your side, just please- please, don't annex me!"

A country could disappear that way. It did not always happen, just like it hadn't happened with Austria and Czech and Slovakia, but it was a very real fear for Italy. Germany, however, just stood, observing Italy for a moment. Then he spoke, in a tone that was clearly a little sympathetic but in no way soothing. "It should teach you a lesson, being shut up in this room. I won't annex you until the Allies are out of your territory."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left, leaving a still-terrified Italian handcuffed to the bed.

/AN/ Yeah, so, hope you enjoyed it... Again, sorry it took so long... I never intend to do that, it just ends up happening. But, anywho, history in this chapter: Nazi Germany had plans to annex North Italy into the German Reich. But first, of course, they had to fight off the Allies.


	7. Chapter 7

I am sorry for neglecting this story. I have had a very hard time writing it, for some reason. DX

And also, I cannot recall if annexing Italy was the plan from the start, but I know for sure it was the plan when Italy changed sides and Germany occupied it.

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

The curtains were surprisingly pretty, Italy had realised, long after the fear had dulled. In fact, the whole room was rather pretty, with pink walls, and a doily on the nightstand, and a beautifully flowered duvet beneath him. He shifted, rather placidly, having gotten used to being on his back after the first few hours. With Germany not around, it was hard to sustain a fear of him and what he was going to do.

The handcuffs didn't really hurt, though his arm and back were stiff as washboards. His eyes settled on the ceiling once again, trying to find the cracks that looked like pasta. Maybe he would dose off again soon, as he had been doing for the whole night and much of this morning. It was a much too long siesta, even he had to admit, but seeing as there was little else to do...

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and energy seemed to jolt into Italy's veins once again. His eyes immediately met Germany's blue eyes, eyes that were clouded with misty distrust. Not a word was spoken, not a sound made, until Germany broke the silence. "You're on my side now, you know that? Northern Italy has been declared its own Republic, and Mussolini is the leader once again. And we will get your brother back, I can promise you that."

Italy did not reply; the thought of Romano being subjected to this as well was an unhappy one. He was sure his older brother would flip out completely if Germany took him captive this way, though of course, it would only take Germany being threatening to get him back in line. Neither he nor Romano were particularly known for their courage, after all.

Germany shifted on his feet, though whether out of uneasiness or impatience with his silence, Italy could not tell. "Don't you dare try to run. I have guards all around my house, and they will catch you." His voice was authoritative, and Italy could only watch meekly as Germany clomped over and unlocked the handcuffs with a tiny key. Apparently, he had a whole ring of keys; he must have had lots of things to lock away from the rest of the world.

Italy stood on his own two feet as soon as he was released, twisting his back and arms to relieve the stiffness. Germany watched him like a hawk, as though sure he would suddenly have a huge swell of bravery within his breast and try to dash out the door and take out the guards. Well, Germany certainly had no need of fearing such a display; Italy felt rather small today, like a bad child that had been locked in his room to calm down from a temper tantrum.

But he hadn't done anything wrong, and he had to remember that; Germany was the one who had turned into a monster. Said country lightly grabbed Italy's elbow, drawing him towards the door. "I made breakfast. You're eating it."

Italy nodded, not seeing anything bad about that, as forceful as Germany was being about it. He was probably establishing his authority, as he always did. Even back when they had been friends, he'd always had to be the one in charge. Now was clearly no different.

Down the stairs, which he had come up without touching a single step, in utter terror of what would happen up top. Italy might have thought it was silly, how he'd reacted the last night, and pass off the happenings as a misinterprettation, had it not been for the stern German at his back.

The dining room was familiar, and the food - eggs and sausage- was already getting cold. Italy sat down in one of the hand-carved wooden chairs, feeling his stomach growl suddenly. That was sort of funny, because he hadn't even known he was hungry until that instant. He swiftly crossed himself, thanking God for the meal, trying to ignore the feeling of Germany looking down on him.

And then he began to eat, making sure not to wolf it down. Honestly, the sausages weren't exactly his favorite kind of food, and the eggs were kind of cold and a little rubbery, but he wasn't about to complain. He might have done so at any other time, or insisted on cooking a new breakfast for both of them, like he frequently did back when he slept over at Germany's, before _that_ time, but now was really not the time to be a picky gourmet.

Italy could feel Germany's eyes on the back of his neck, and it certainly made eating a little uncomfortable. Silence reigned, other than the sound of chewing, which Italy tried to keep to a minimum. A question continued to burn in the back of his mind while he tried to keep it out: What was Germany going to do to him, other than annex him later on? Was he to be put through the same things as Poland?

It couldn't happen to him, he reasoned. Germany had always _hated_ Poland, unlike Italy, with whom he was on good terms. Or rather, he _had_ been on good terms with. Italy shuddered, and chanced a glance backwards. Germany's stoic face met him, a thought clearly being repeated behind those eyes, but it was indecipherable.

With the coldness lately, coupled with the rage, he realised he should not be surprised if Germany did indeed put him through hell. But, but, he had not yet, which gave him something to hold onto. So far, yes, he'd been tied up and kidnapped, and also cuffed to a bed, but he had not been purposely harmed. Maybe Germany had no intent to hurt him. Or maybe, it was because he had not struck back at him.

These thoughts plagued Italy, who was not used to thinking things through so thoroughly. To him, people should be classified as glad, sad or mad, rather than a complicated mix. But this situation required looking beyond the basic evaluation, and if that was what it took to survive, then he would do it.

"Take care of your dishes." The command was sudden, but Italy realised that he had indeed finished his food. He obediently lifted the dishes, causing the fork to clink against the plate. As he took them into the kitchen, Germany followed, eyes still on him, almost like a predator, except that Germany would have found eating him very distasteful.

As his dishes were put into the sink, Germany felt the need to update him on what they were doing that day. "Today, we are going to fight the Allies."

"'We'?" Italy asked, feeling his heart sink. Germany nodded sternly. "Yes. And if I see any cowardice or attempts to escape, let me just tell you your fate will not be pleasant."

Italy gulped, but Germany's cold, hard eyes certainly left no room for argument. The muscular nation gestured towards the doorway, and Italy passed through it, feeling as though he leaving safety behind. This was not how he had expected this war to go.

/AN/ Again, I am so sorry it took so long... And that this chapter is uneventful. However, the next one should be more interesting, I swear. And I really will try to put it up much sooner than this one was. I've just been having such difficulty with this one...


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you so much for your reviews! I really do appreciate them, especially after I keep you guys waiting so often. I am sorry this one took so long as well. I am having a harder time remembering all the history for this one, and I definitely don't want to mess it up. Just a little while longer until I'm done with school though!

Enjoy the chapter, m'dears!

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

Suddenly, Italy dug his feet into the ground. Germany bumped into him, nearly forcing him forward, but Italy maintained his balance stubbornly. He had made up his mind. "I won't do it."

There was a pause from Germany, probably disbelief at the root of it. Italy could feel apprehension spread thoughout his body, though the belief that Germany wouldn't _really_ hurt him tried feebly to assuage it. "You will." Came a response, rather firm and cold.

Italy shook his head, though his hands were trembling as he clenched them into fists. "I won't. I can't! Germany, I told you, I'm through with this war!" He wasn't facing Germany, he couldn't see his reaction - but he sure felt it.

He hit the ground, head spinning and feeling the after-waves of the first burst of pain. His mind gasped in realisation. Germany had indeed struck him, on the back of the head. He fumbled a bit, still reeling emotionally and physically from the shock of being struck, before he was up on his knees.

"You think you can just defy me? You think I will put up with that shit? No, you signed an agreement with me, and I _will not_ let you break it!" Germany's boot met Italy's unprotected stomach rather forcefully, causing the Italian to let out a pained grunt, and fall onto his side. "Germany!" But he couldn't say he was sorry, he couldn't be contrite; what he was doing was the right thing.

The determination in him faltered as he saw Germany's boot coming for his face. "Germany no- ungh!" Red and white stars danced before his vision, and he found he was gasping for his breath, the pain taking away all rational thought. Frightened energy filled his veins, and his arms began grappling with Germany's boot as it was raised again. "I won't put up with insubordinance!" Germany roared, foot easily stomping like a meat hammer on Italy's arms, earned quite a few cries and whimpers from the owner.

"Germany, stop! Stop!" His arms and fingers were crushed at odd angles, causing jagged shocks of pain to shoot up them. Why, why, why? His mind was having a hard time comprehending _his_ Germany doing this to him, even though he had hit him before in the truck. "Please, Germany, it _hurts_!"

His eyes connected with Germany's stern blue ones, and the German's eyes seemed to waver, his boot coming down one last time, much softer than before. Italy scrambled back, barely breaking eye contact with Germany, his eyes begging him, though whether for mercy from attack, or understanding of the way their relationship had changed, he was not sure. Germany didn't seem to know either, and finally he looked away.

"You're coming with me to the front, and that's final." Italy had pulled his bruised and battered arms close to him, staying on the ground. He wanted to curl up on himself and hide, he wanted to be away from his friend-turned-enemy more than he ever had. That voice began to whisper to him, horrifying thoughts enlarging his fears- was he going to turn into another Poland if he resisted? Would he be the one trembling and terrified in Germany's basement or other horrible holding cell? Would his nation be on the brink of destruction, his culture annihilated through annexation?

The possibilities were too strong for Italy, and he closed his eyes, a tremulous and bad-tasting "Yes..." coming out of his mouth. It was good enough for Germany, as unwilling as it sounded, and he promptly hauled Italy to his feet by the back of his shirt. "Get in the jeep. We don't have time to waste."

Italy slipped into the passenger side, and fell into a darkened state. What was he thinking, saying yes? It was the furthest thing from what he wanted, it was agreeing with the destruction of his people and new allies. He rolled back the sleeves on his shirt, examining the bruises that were forming. He did not want to get hurt, but when was it survival instinct, and when was it just cowardice?

Germany had already started the jeep, and was heading down the road without a word to Italy. Italy only hung his head down, not watching to see where they were going. He had to fight his foes-turned-friends; he had to fight his _brother_. He had not fought him in years, not seriously, and it was something they had both promised never to do again. Romano would hate him for it; his people would hate him for it.

But Germany was all muscles and guns and lightning-attacks. How could he possibly stand against him?

/AN/ Whew! I'm starting my job tomorrow, but I still expect to be able to update more frequently over the summer. It's just that getting in the correct mood for this story has been difficult lately (plus school nearly killed me). So, I was kind of representing the battle between the Italian troops and the German troops in Italy. I forget what the battle is called though. It ended in the massacre of the captured Italian troops. Anyway, until I next update, adieu!


	9. Chapter 9

I think I'm really starting to get back into gear for this one... Though, to be honest, I want to write longer chapters, like I do with Savage. So I think I'm going to make an attempt to do so from now on, k? It'll be cool.

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

War fronts were so different from the rest of the world, Italy had concluded as the jeep rolled into dangerous territory. It so surreal, that any moment a bullet might hit and it would all be over, and yet nothing could be more real than the threat of death. It forced one into an extreme consciousness, an awareness that took over the whole body and kept it taut and prepared to react. Though whether the reaction would actually save a person, in this modern age of bullets and bombs, was debatable.

It was why Italy hated war so. It took the color, the beauty, the music out of life and reduced it to the bare facts of being dead or alive, victorious or deposed. He didn't understand how anyone could actually push for war, or the way Germany's eyes lit with a strange fervor at the mention of the great war they were in. If he had any wish right now, he would wish for his people to be free of it for eternity, to always live in peace.

The jeep jerked to a stop, and Italy didn't look up from his thoughts. Germany's voice, however, cut through them. "Get out, it's time to go. We have work to do."

Italy didn't want to do the work of shooting and killing people like so many animals in a hunt. He didn't want to get out of the car. But the memory of pain, and the horrific vision of Poland's fate, flashed in his mind, and he was on his feet before he knew it. Germany made an impatient gesture towards him, commanding him to head towards the building none too far away from him.

It wasn't a fancy building, in fact a modest home, he could see, but certainly could serve its new designated purpose. Perhaps Germany had chosen it because it was low-key. Italy's boot-clad feet moved slowly along the path leading towards it, as though he were walking through water. This was not how he wanted it to be. Whether he be aiding in the strategy or the horrid act, he wanted nothing to do with any of this.

Germany seized his elbow, clipping along at a march that seemed to speak of his need to be punctual and orderly. Italy was dragged along, much faster than he wanted to go, but what could he do? There was only submission at this point, only Germany's way or destruction.

"They are waiting for us," came the slightly-growled information. Italy could only nod dumbly, as though he understood who they were and why they wanted him, of all people. The door was wrenched open by Germany's large, crushing hand, and inside was revealed to be just as low-key as outside, with a devotional shrine in the main room and basic furniture. The bricks of the wall were a soft earthy color, and made Italy's heart give a sharp ache for his own home.

He was dragged further, to a wooden table where stern, age-worn men in uniform were sitting, maps and plans spread all over the table. As Germany settled him in a seat, he felt so soft and small in comparison, as thought he were a piece of fleece in a sea of sharp metal. All eyes were on him, sizing him up, judging, scoffing at the size and nature of their captive ally. He shrank in on himself a little, and heard Germany take a seat next to him.

Silence reigned for a few moments, until Germany coughed abruptly and caught Italy's attention. "You will tell us all you know about America and his allies. How many troops have landed? How much equipment have they invested in this battle? Are they at all ready to battle it out in your terrain?"

Italy looked away, knees pressing together and hands clasping each other. He didn't know any of this, how was he supposed to respond? Did he lie to give them what they wanted, or did he admit his ignorance? Italy closed his eyes tightly. He knew, he should know by now, that honesty was the best policy, and it always would be. Germany wouldn't hate him for being honest; in fact, there was the possibility he could go back home if he was of no help, his mind dreamily suggested.

"I-I don't know... I don't know any of that. It was my bosses who knew, not... not me..." his voice began to trail off as he saw the stern look growing ever sharper and more severe on Germany's face. Faltering completely, Italy tucked his arms against himself, feeling any confidence he had about the situation evaporate. Germany thought he was lying, he thought he was lying! What would he do to a liar, especially one he deemed a close ally? Italy looked down and away from anyone's gaze.

Germany rose from his chair, in a deceptively calm movement. He stood behind Italy, speaking in a controlled tone. "Are you trying to tell me that when your country was invaded, you paid no attention at all?" Italy tried to speak, whispering, "No... I just, I didn't think it was important... I was going to surrender, I didn't-"

"You did not even think to fight back? Not even at the beginning?" The anger in Germany's voice was rising quickly, though Italy couldn't understand why. Hadn't Germany come to expect this of him by now? Why was he getting angry? A franticness to began to rise in Italy, but he pushed it back down. He would be alright, he wasn't trying to escape or resist!

"I don't know..." he mumbled miserably, not daring to lie but not daring to tell the truth. Germany leaned into his face, spitting out, "You spineless coward... How can you even call yourself a nation, behaving in the shameless way you do?" Italy flinched back, wanting to shut his eyes and break off the contact with the piercing icy blues. "G-Germany, you know why... You know..."

"Perhaps it is fortunate you have come under our control. Italians are the most pitiful fighters I have ever met; it's a wonder your people were even one coherent country." Germany had pulled back crossing his arms behind his back as he began to walk back and forth. Italy felt a pang of hurt. How could Germany say that? It was true, Italy was not the best fighter, but his people... They could be so brave, when they wanted to be. His soldiers fought with inferior equipment, some of it even from WWI, but they still faced the enemy, even if they retreated in the end.

"We had best not rely on the Italian troops on our side too much; to do so has been misguided on several occasions. We must dig in and never let go of Italy, for if Italy is taken, it is only one step beyond that into Germany." Germany's attention had been redirected to his generals and officers, who were nodding sternly. Italy felt as though he had been suddenly protected by some shade of invisibility, some way of cutting off his presence from Germany's eyes and ears, and relaxed a little, making sure not to draw attention to himself.

"Is the effort going well?" Germany was now looking at one man in particular, who Italy probably should have known the name of by now, but he couldn't recall. Said man nodded, pointing to a point on the map. "The Allies have made some progress, but will not get past this line. Our defense is far too strong."

A glance at the map told Italy that they were in Southern Italy, which meant his brother was going to feel the brunt of the fighing for now. A conflict of emotions tangled inside him, chiefly consisting of sorrow for his brother's pain and relief at his own good fortune, though guilt quickly threaded through it at the second emotion.

More talking went on, in German, of course, as Germany always spoke when speaking to humans. It wasn't that he, and his men here, didn't speak Italian; it was that their language was the 'better' one. Fortunately, Italy also spoke German, but he wasn't paying attention. So long as he was left alone, he could hold himself together.

What would become of him and his brother, torn apart like this? Was it just their destiny to remain separate, small and self-anxious kingdoms, interests only intersecting in war and violence? Italy slumped in his seat a little bit more. Germany had done this to them. A small twinge pulled at the corner of his mind, to admit that he and Romano had never been particularly close; there was the possibility, although small, that they could have done something like this to themselves, without the interference of Germany.

Italy squeezed his eyes shut. No. Things were different now, he and Romano did not behave the way they used to. Yes, they still fought, but it was nothing like yesteryear's battles. Both of them would be wounded if they left each other, he was sure of it, though his heart seemed to have some doubt.

"Then that is all. Heil Hitler!" The salute, which clearly ended the meeting, was echoed back by Germany's men. Italy looked up, a little surprised that it was over already. Perhaps they would go back to Germany's house now, he surmised, and though that was a thought he certainly did not relish, it was better than fighting in the front lines, as Germany had seemed like he wanted to do originally.

"Italy! It is time to go." Germany was giving him that steely stare he hated, so he got to his feet rather quickly. "Yes, Germany." Their boots made the usual trudging noises as they exited the house and headed for the jeep. Italy could hear gunshots, so close he almost felt as though each noise were a shot to his mind. They slid into their seats, rather quietly, and then Germany started the jeep.

"Where are we going?" Italy asked, curiousity - and anxiety of where they might be going - taking temporary control. Germany's mouth was fixed in a grim line, and he answered rather coolly. "To rally the troops." Italy felt a chill go up his spine. _He_ was supposed to rally his troops to a battle he did not want and did not believe in? What would Germany do if he wasn't enthusiastic enough?

Concerns pooled in his mind as they drove along. More than anything, the need to go home, the ever-trilling, whinging need, kept poking its head up and drowning him in torrents of homesickness. He wasn't a soldier. He didn't have big muscles and a nerve of steel. How could these situations keep being thrust upon him?

/AN/ I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'm just excited to update something! Work has been killing me! So, anyway, should be more action in the next chapter.


	10. Chapter 10

I don't know what it is with this story... It's got to be my best thus far, but I have such a hard time writing it sometimes... I am sorry it took so long to get this chapter up. I am also very grateful for your reviews. Believe me, they're a big part of what keeps me writing this story.

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

The jeep rumbled along, and Italy was trapped in his thoughts, body jerking with every bounce. They were going to the front lines, where the dying and killing took place, to talk the troops into more dying and killing. And against their own, too. Though it had been done many times before, Italy had always felt as though people slaying their own kind was a special sort of sin, somehow worse than killing a stranger.

He had at least the consolation that it would be mostly American, British etc. troops that would be fighting against him, and probably not his fratello too much. But there was no avoiding the fact that there were Italians who would die for this country, for his brother and him, their blood an offering for peace and unity. His people were going to die, and possibly die in large numbers.

They came to a stop, not too far from a large hill. Italy looked numbly in front of him, and could see that the hill had been made into a battle front, men hidden with their guns and other cruel weapons. Any soldier trying to take that hill was sure to be pumped full of lead.

Germany looked over at Italy, gesturing roughly to get out of the jeep. Italy didn't want to do this, but he didn't want to fight Germany more, so he opened his door with a creak, and slid off of the seat. He followed Germany, like a rather heavy-hearted duckling, along to where the main group of soldiers were gathered.

It didn't take being a country to recognise his own troops; they were the ones with the inferior equipment, the unsure eyes, and the quickly moving mouths. It seemed they recognised him as well, spirits picking up on seeing their country on their side. If they only knew how unwillingly he was here, how much he wished they had surrendered or fought the Germans like their comrades in arms.

He looked back at Germany, and was surprised to be met with an expectant stare, sharp as a hawk's gaze. What was he supposed to do? His confused face must have clued Germany in to his puzzled state, for the stern nation said, in a low voice, "You're here to encourage your troops. Convince them that they should be on _your side_."

His side. As though it were his choice to be here. Italy shook his head, in a very small jerking motion. He could barely give himself reason beyond his fear to go along with this himself, much less convince anyone else. But Germany's face darkened, brows furrowing together as he hissed, "If you don't give these men reason to fight for you, I _will_ give you reason to fight for yourself."

And the dark way he said it indicated future violence, not a pep talk. Italy felt a shiver go up his spine, and set about trying to muster up a good speaking voice. "Men..."

His voice had a waver. Now his men were looking his way, some confused, some curious, all with a slight hopeful glint in their eye, as though anything he could say could make the battle ahead of them easier. Italy cleared his throat, starting again. "Men, we are here today to fight for the success," his voice broke a little on the word, " for the success of this republic.

"We will spend our blood, our sweat and our tears." Italy felt sick just thinking of it, like a rock was rolling around in his stomach. "Why? For the integrity of our country, for the _freedom_" he was lying, he hated it, "of the people of this republic, and eventually the whole of Italy. We- we must keep the foreign influence of the Allies out of our cities, our towns, our _country_." Though, the same could be said about Germany, even though he was more familiar.

It seemed as though Germany didn't like where this ill thought out speech was going, for he spoke up then, in Italian. "Men of Italy," he said, voice deep and strong, "Germany has stood beside you in all your major battles in this war. We have been fighting beside you even in this battle for your homeland. Why? Because nothing is more important to us than the freedom of your country, just as our own is important to us. How can you contribute anything less than what a German soldier is contributing to your freedom? Are you not men, just as capable of spending your blood and sweat, just as brave and full of valor? Has your country not a history of passion and struggles for freedom? Stand firm, and this battle will be won, and your country will be free!"

There was some small cheering from the Italians. Some of them were clearly invigorated by this speech. Most looked at least like they were ready to go into battle, even if they weren't too thrilled by it. Italy, once again, felt sick. They were going to die, and what were they fighting for? A future of division, still kept under Mussolini's thumb without the advantage of a king who would oppose the tyrant?

Germany gave Italy a _look_, one that communicated they were going to be talking about his speech-making skills later on. Italy's shoulders hunched a little, as though he were trying to protect himself from that talk, though of course there was nothing that could save him from that.

"It's time to go." Germany's announcement would have been welcome had it not been for the threat of an assault of words upon Italy later. Italy was reluctant to follow, but even more afraid not to, and so headed for the jeep once again.

Opening and closing the door gently, he sat gingerly upon the seat, not daring to look over at Germany. Said nation slammed his door with more force than necessary, as if to show Italy how it was done. Italy may not have been the best at reading the atmosphere, but even he could tell that Germany was not happy with his performance. He shuddered, thinking of what was to come next.

He wished he was the South Italy, not the North Italy, all of a sudden. But then he felt guilty. Would he really wish this on Romano, just so he wouldn't have to bear it? What kind of a selfish sibling did that? No, family took blows and looked out for each other, they _cared_. Just because it didn't always seem like it with Romano didn't mean he should stop caring as well.

The jeep rumbled over the ground, heading back for the city, or where ever Germany was choosing to take them. Italy hoped they never reached it. He didn't want to be yelled at.

/AN/ I know, it's not long like I've been trying to make it, but I hope it's acceptable. I am going to be working on the next chapter soon, so don't give up hope! And yes, Prussia will show up eventually. And possibly Austria too.


	11. Chapter 11

I'm glad there's an outline for this story dictated by history, or else I wouldn't necessarily remember what I was going to do next. It's a good frame to work off of. Anyway, thank you so much to my reviewers! I really do appreciate you guys.

I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/

When the jeep stopped at Germany's house, once again, Italy did not want to get out. He didn't want to face Germany's wrath again so soon, which could be so painful and terrifying. But of course, it only took a prompting glare from Germany to force him out of his seat once again, and send him reluctantly towards the door of the house.

Germany opened it for him, a strange streak of politeness infused into the horror that had been his hospitality. Italy weakly stepped forward and through the threshold, practically feeling Germany's presence so close behind him as the taller nation shut the door and shut him in.

There was silence for a moment, and Italy could feel the tension in the room thrum throughout his muscles and bones, impossible to ignore or relieve. Then Germany spoke, voice deep and sounding as though the heavyness of his stern tone was pulling it down towards the ground.

"Italy, what are you trying to do here?" It was an interesting question. What _was_ he trying to do here? Did he want to oppose Germany, or was that more than his frail frame could bear? He would never label his men cowards, but lord knew it ran in his veins, under his skin. He knew no way to escape his nature, it seemed.

"Well? What have you got to say to me?" It was not a growl, but it was just about as friendly. His tone seemed drenched in darkness, urging an answer or else future violence. Italy's mind scrambled for an answer, flashing between stating his disagreement out loud or trying to make the situation seem less serious, whether through a laugh or a smile.

"I-I... I didn't mean... Germany, please, I wouldn't do it on purpose!" Italy was afraid, there was no denying it. His muscles were tense, and at the same time he could feel a creepy crawly shiver on every inch of his skin. Being hit was the jarring reaction he did not want to experience.

Germany's teeth clenched, his jaw giving a twitch as he surely tried to keep his temper under control. "Italy. If you do not cooperate, then I will have to be less lenient with you. I know you don't want that. So, are you going to obey me, or not?"

"I'm... I'm going to obey you..." Italy's trailed off at the end of the sentence, because he knew there was no commitment, no real belief in what he himself said. Germany seemed to know it as well, and he stepped forward, clenching his fist around the front of Italy's shirt. "Italy, why am I not convinced?"

"I'll obey you!" Italy gasped out, feeling the closeness seem to contaminate his air. Germany's breath lingered on his face for a moment longer, before the stern nation let him go, seeming satisfied with his fear. Gesturing towards the kitchen, Germany sighed, saying, "Well, go make dinner. _I've_ certainly earned it."

Italy was quick to obey, scuttling off to the kitchen. As he entered, he saw the usual pots and pans, the spices alphabetically in their rack, the cabinets all shut securely- and the door to the dreaded and hellish basement. Feeling a crawling on his skin, Italy couldn't help but despair of Poland's fate, so surely trapped beyond rescue. There was nothing he could do, there was nothing the Allies would be able to do in any reasonable amount of time-

Poland would surely be eradicated.

He should do something. No, he shouldn't, Germany would put him down there as well, and what help could he be as trapped as his unfortunate friend? Italy nervously chewed on a fingernail, staring at the door. Cowardice was a driving force in keeping him here rather than there, but it was a preserving factor, and he couldn't, he _wouldn't_, sacrifice his country, his people, for another's.

But this was _Poland_, a great friend of his youth, the fiery-spirited blonde who had vowed to become a country, just like him. Could he abandon him, in his time of need? The chills creeping up his spine at Germany's cold, angry attitude towards him assured him he could. And he realised he had better start cooking now, or else face that wrath once more.

"Hey, look at you, West sure whooped your pansy ass big time, didn't he?" Italy knocked a pan off of its rack at the words, startling badly. A quick turn of his head confirmed the speaker: Prussia, Germany's albino brother. A smirk rested upon his face smugly, as his chilling red eyes captured Italy's soft brown ones. Italy's head ducked down a little as he answered.

"Bonjourno Prussia." It was short, and rather uncharacteristicly unexpressive of him. But the last thing he wanted right now, besides being beaten and thrown into the basement, was to have to deal with Prussia. Adjusting his sleeves nervously, he didn't notice Prussia was coming closer until he was nearly nose to nose with him.

"What's this?" And he drew back his sleeve, his hands feeling far too close, far too intimate for his former friend's brother, and Italy wanted to pull back, to push against Prussia and make him fall down and away, but those maniacal red eyes bid him not to, as the smirk seemed to spread further.

"West _actually_ beat you? What'd you do? Refuse to surrender for the first time in your life?" Prussia was mocking him, inwardly laughing at his pain and bad situation. Italy wanted to cover the blossoming bruises, all blue and black and purple, cover that the one he had trusted the most was now the worst of his problems. And he wanted Prussia to know that he had his brave streak, that he had stood against the Ottoman Empire back in the day, when his brother had not. _He_ had been the one to save Christendom, not Prussia, not Germany, and not any of the other powers in this world war.

"Excuse me, I have to make dinner," he mumbled, feeling cowed by Prussia's large presence and the fact that he was one of the ones who was now in charge of him, the wolf playing shepherd to the sheep. As he tried to move out of Prussia's grasp, however, the albino seized his chin, none too gently. "I guess West doesn't look too kindly on _backstabbers_, huh? You probably thought he'd just let you hurt us and our cause that way. But that's what makes us the ubermensch: we can win a war, instead of being cowards."

He released Italy's face rather forcefully, making him stumble back a bit. Italy felt as though this were just one more change sending an already crumbling world reeling. Prussia had never been particularly soft and kind towards him, but so long as Germany favored him, he had left him alone. Now, he could feel the albino's mean streak coming out in full force. It made him wonder how he had been to France, and Russia, and the Baltics and everyone else who they'd captured.

"Well, go on, make dinner!" Those red eyes were burning into the back of his skull, as Italy's trembling hands pulled potatoes out of the sack. He wanted to pretend he was anywhere else, but he knew to avoid this reality was to rile Prussia up further.

"I'm making it," he said quietly, piling the potatoes on the counter. His nails dug into the raw skin of one as he lifted it, looking around for the knife to peel it. None too far away was a whole set of knives, set into a wooden holder. As his hands reached for the handle of one, Prussia's sharp red eyes followed them, before he declared, "Oh no you don't… You're not getting your hands on a weapon! What do you think I am, crazy?"

"Well… How am I supposed to make dinner?" He dreaded an answer. He hated Prussia's sharp tongue, especially now that it was unleashed on him, shredding his words and self-esteem into jagged ribbons. Normally, he didn't feel people's words so strongly, but there were certain people who could get past his happiness and straight into the soft center of his heart with their ugly, hard words. Germany was one of them; Prussia was another.

"I guess you'll have to use your finger nails." It might have been offhanded, if Prussia had not been grinning at his own cruelty. Prussia was a warrior, for centuries, Italy knew; revenge was second nature by now, as was delight at dealing it out. Compared to his past, this was mild; but it was cruelty nonetheless, and Italy could feel his heart sinking.

"But I can't peel enough potatoes in time," he protested, not daring to make a grab for a knife, though his hand itched to get a hold of it and get the job done. Prussia's grin changed into a feral smirk, and it made Italy shrink back.

"Well, you should have thought ahead, don't you think? Maybe thought about how betraying the most awesome country in the world _and_ Germany would have been a bad idea!" He nearly spat into Italy's face, yelling the last part as Italy cowered against the stove. Prussia was insane, Prussia didn't mind blood, Prussia _hated_ him now.

In fact, if Germany hadn't stepped into the room just then, he was sure Prussia would have dragged him over to the sink to start peeling. "Bruder, leave him alone and let him make dinner. He's not worth your time."

"I was just leaving anyway, West." As nonchalantly as if he'd just been engaging in minor, inane conversation with Italy, the albino nation left the room. Italy looked into Germany's face, feeling traces of hope start to raise within him. However, he was met with a cold gaze, broken off by Germany's abrupt exit into the dining room.

Italy was alone in this house.

/AN/ I was going to have this done sooner, but then college hit and laid me out for about, mm, two weeks or so. And before that college was keeping me busy cause of all the stuff I had to do. Aiyah. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! I will try to keep them coming, but I am busier than I have ever been! It's exhilarating in some ways, but also exhausting. So, au revoir and good night!


	12. Chapter 12

Well… I know it's been a while, but I did want to update this story. Especially since people are still interested in it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter.

I don't own Hetalia!end/AN/

He'd had to eat in the kitchen, though maybe he shouldn't've been surprised. Germany hadn't even looked at him as he barked at him to stay in there and eat.

However, he had gotten the sympathetic look of Austria, who seemed to have materialized from nowhere to eat dinner; it was the sort of look one had to know the person to know it was sympathetic, though. And Italy had known Austria for a number of years, that was for certain.

At least he was allowed to eat; Italy had been half-afraid he wouldn't be allowed, with how angry Germany had been with him during his stay.

Had he stabbed him in the back? He didn't like to think so. It had been time he left, and he had to do what was best for himself and his brother, didn't Germany know? It was too dangerous, too bloody and bitter to fight anymore. Romano could only have lasted so long, he was sure, and he couldn't be positive of his own survival.

But maybe that was what Germany didn't understand; maybe he thought people should fight to the death, even if the issue didn't matter to them. Why couldn't he understand that this was _his_ war, not Italy's?

Italy chewed on his potatoes, standing at the kitchen counter. If he could talk to Austria, maybe he would be able to convince Germany to let him go, and not annex him and his brother. Austria had always been reasonable, at least compared to Germany now. He would be able to bend that iron will, Italy was sure.

Or maybe not so sure; it seemed things had changed so massively, it was hard to take in. But he would try it, and Austria would remember how they had lived together and how he had taught him how to behave.

The last bit of potato went down Italy's throat, and he stared at his plate. Any time now, they would be done. Germany did not have a lot of time for meals these days; he did not dilly-dally around the table. And if he was gone, then Prussia and Austria would only stick around so long.

The clink of dishes from the dining room alerted him to their moving about, and he hastily moved his own to the sink. Prussia was unpredictable; hell, _Germany_ was unpredictable. He did not want to provoke any attacks of any kind.

The four Germanic countries filed into the kitchen, each bearing their own dishes. Not a glance was given to him, except for a sneer from Prussia. It was as though he couldn't stand to let Italy think he'd get blessed relief from the hazing.

Germany spoke, startling Italy and breaking the silence. "Wash the dishes; then I must speak with you in my office."

Italy's head bobbed up and down, and his skinny hands plunged into the sink, intending to scrape off the dishes. It would take too short a time, he was sure, and he would have to face his invader soon enough. The thought gave him chills.

"Oops!" It was sinister, but the cutlery gashing Italy's hand was far more so.

"Ah, oh, oh, oh…" It stung, as Italy clutched his hand, desperately trying not to make too much noise. Who knew what would happen to him, in this uncertain little world?

Prussia shrugged, stating, "You should have been looking out! You wouldn't have gotten cut then."

He wanted to cry out, as his eyes began to sting, and he scrubbed at them with the inside of his elbow. He was startled when a large hand grabbed his wrist, and twisted the limb out of his grip.

"I'll have to clean this," came the grumble, as Germany pulled him away and towards the counter. The thick pads on his fingers dug in, his other hand reaching for a first aid kit.

It was sort of bittersweet to think about; the first aid kit was there specifically for Italy. He'd had one too many mishaps at Germany's house, and so the nation had set it up, explaining everything inside it. And even though Italy understood basic first aid, he let him. Because there were things far more important than proving you know something.

It stung as Germany applied the antiseptic, but Italy didn't mind. He was being looked after, like before, and he could pretend, just for the moment, that things were normal. That Germany wasn't avoiding his gaze, staring mechanically at his hand.

"Can't keep yourself safe for a moment…" the German muttered, finishing swabbing the area, and then wrapping it with gauze. "You'll be useless this way."

"I can still grab things…" Italy said tentatively, trying to somehow make this work. He clenched his fist, wincing but determined to prove it to Germany. They had to make up some time, didn't they?

The scary silence followed, as Germany brooded, before he turned away without an answer. It seemed it didn't matter what Italy said; he was going to continue his plans regardless.

Prussia gave a small snicker, but was silenced with a look from Germany. He grumbled something about 'someone' not having a sense of humor, but to Italy's relief, he moved on, not bothering him anymore. He must have had things more important to do.

Austria reached out, awkwardly patting Italy on the shoulder. "It will get better; Germany's a good country, and he's got a good plan. You'll see."

And Italy had to wonder if he would.

/AN/ Well, I wasn't sure if I would ever update this story! It has been a crazy, crazy school year, but since it's finally over, and I haven't gotten a job yet (cross your fingers), I've had more time to write. So I figured I would put more time into my other stories besides Savage.


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